Old FriendsBookends
by zoophagous
Summary: Sherlock and Watson are old men now, and together they remember the "good ol' days" as they deteriorate, accepting that they will never "live" again.  The title is copied after Simon & Garfunkel's song, which inspired me to write this fic. Enjoy!


Holmes leant back in his ragged armchair, exhaling "thank you," with a mouthful of smoke, as his agéd companion with shaking hands placed a boiling cup of tea down upon the fireplace edge. The skull still sat there as a constant reminder that Sherlock and Watson were not too far off themselves, they could already see their wrinkled skin beginning to fall away under their face, leaving the sharp jaw lines and deeply embedded eye sockets that the skull also possessed.

Their rooms were messier than when they were younger: neglected science equipment scattered across the kitchen table, John's old newspapers littered 221b's floor, photographs and newspaper articles were on every surface and plastered all over their wall -just to give them something to look at-, and all of their memories for the last forty years lay spread evenly across every surface, with a thick coating of dust and grime -ever since Mrs Hudson passed away thirty years ago, the flat had been a complete sty and no one cared enough to help the two men get by.

Sherlock watched the steam climb through the air above his mug, intertwining with the dust and smoke, dancing; ironic, while hearing his faithful companion hobble with an old wooden walking stick for what seemed to last an eternity, but his destination was only two metres away.

The pair sat in silence, as usual, and they could almost see each other's thoughts: the bright lights and thrills of London while they ran about in their thirties, catching master criminals and being regarded as the best defenders of the law, of all time. These colourful and exciting memories kept them entertained and connected, and they often ended an evening by sighing in synchronization, smiling and hobbling off to their bedrooms before they became too emotional.

"How long has it been, Holmes?" John murmured, a familiar warmth in his tone, but he could not bring himself to look at the retired detective.

After a long pause, Sherlock lowered his head and muttered "since what?" while he stroked the dark violin absentmindedly. His swollen fingers traced the cracks filled with dust and thought of the days when he played this very instrument to help him decipher some of his toughest riddles.

"Barts, 'A Study in Pink'." John chuckled at the last part.

Holmes joined in, his deep grumbles interrupting the flow of smoke that poured out of his stained teeth and cracked lips. "47 years, I think, my dear Watson." to which John sighed quietly, trying to hide his emotions from Sherlock.

"When did we get so goddamn pathetic?" He ejaculated, his voice rich with self-hatred. The doctor had been unemployed for some years now, and after Sherlock got badly injured half a decade back, they were both condemned to spend the rest of their days festering in the corpse of their youth and wallowing in the sadness of aging. How was it fair that pathetic, idiotic young boys could go wherever they wanted with all their health, and achieve _nothing_, and the two greatest men who ever lived lay abandoned and forgotten, left to _decompose_ in a flat that still had decade old eye balls and thumbs stashed in various cupboards? It wasn't fair, but Watson knew that complaining only aged his faster.

Every day was always the same: the pair would wake up at 7 am, John would read an old newspaper and Sherlock would read the latest crime reports -Lestrade had requested that Sherlock should be kept updated, even if he wasn't allowed to contribute or help in the slightest. The pair would sit and read until they fell asleep in the early afternoon.

When they had awoken, John would make tea and Sherlock would make toast and they would eat while watching The Jeremy Kyle Show, Maury or The Jerry Springer Show until one of them got too frustrated and turned it off.

They would sometimes go for a stroll around the streets in the evening, then sit in a restaurant or on a park bench while Sherlock would deduce for ol' times sake, but they both knew that Sherlock's mind was beginning to fail him, and it wasn't too long until Alzheimer's stole his gift and the memories of every soul he saved.

They would finally crawl back to 221b, have tea (Sherlock would smoke) and then they would slither back into their bedrooms and sleep their lives away.

Holmes and Watson sat in silence; neither of them really wanted to answer that question and Watson dropped his head in embarrassment. Nearby, a police car whizzed past, wailing _that_ noise and John's head snapped up instantly and his eyes eagerly darted to the door, expecting to see the late Detective Inspector, Gregory Lestrade standing there, explaining that there had been "another one" and a young and elegant Sherlock Holmes would pace around the room, deep in concentration, before pulling on a coat and tying up his scarf, exclaiming that "the game is **on!**"

But Watson was disappointed, as he was every time he heard that noise, and slowly turned his head back to Holmes who smiled at him pitifully. "I miss it too."

Sherlock had kept his pale skin and sharp cheek bones, although he had acquired soft wrinkles, like a river that had drowned the exquisite and youthful man below. Age had not stolen the fiery passion that blazed in the pits of his eyes, but Sherlock looked tired -tired of living as a lifeless vessel, still so full of knowledge and _hunger_. The delicate curls that once adorned his head had been cut off, his face now looked emaciated and waxy; except his eyes that still burned on.

He wore a dusty and creased suit, covered in rips and cigarette ash, the elbows and knees had turned to grey and mud was scattered over the bottom of his trousers; he hadn't yet noticed that his top button was undone and John could see Holmes' fragile collar bones piercing through his dry and cracking skin.

John could hardly bear to look at Sherlock anymore, because whenever he did, all he could see was the deterioration of the greatest man he had ever met.

"John?" Holmes' voice crackled.

John put down his newspaper, "yes, Sherlock?" he responded nervously. John's warm, innocent eyes met Sherlock's in confusion.

"John," Sherlock straightened his torso and composed himself, "John, those were the best days of my life. And I'm so glad that I spent every single one with you." He spoke passionately and slowly, enunciating each syllable as if it were his last.

The good doctor softened his gaze and his face fell. As tears rose in his weary eyes, he blinked them away. The doctor quietly grunted with a small nod, as if to disregard what Holmes had said; but as Watson's eyes met his companion's once again, a solemn smile lightly spread across his withered face and it seemed like his entire lifetime had ended, like a chapter in a book, and he couldn't be happier.


End file.
